Theea
and that was how i learned to live
when you can run but you can't hide
when you can run but you can't hide
The wind ghosts through the shrine and Frey is there—pelt rising, aurora caught under skin—and I can’t look anywhere else. It pulls the breath right out of me, the way sunrise sometimes does when it clears the ridge and lays gold on everything that survived the night. I remember seasons ago, the way I stood smaller than I feel now and asked to be aged, to be given a chance. No quest, no trial. They simply looked at me and found something worth sending into the world.
They look at Damien now and I feel the same surety settle in my chest. He’s worthy too. The difference is only that this bond isn’t Frey’s alone to grant; it’s Aria’s to accept. He’ll have to prove it to both of them—day by day, warm hands and steady care, the slow work that turns promise into truth.
When Frey gathers Aria, I finally see the stitching: fine, bloodied thread holding the pelt together. It’s the same kind of red I cleaned from my ribs in the den, the same pattern Damien had sewn into my skin with steady determination. Something about it knocks against my heart hard enough to sting. I don’t cry at the poignancy of it. I let the feeling pass through like light through glass and I hold onto the part that warms instead of burns. When Aria is given back to his arms—when the Herald of Rae sets a path and calls it an opportunity—I can’t help the small smile that lifts at the corner of my mouth.
Damien glances back and I meet him, steady as I can make myself, and nod once: go on. You’ve got this. Then I lift my eyes to Frey, all the brightness in me kept soft and small so the moment stays where it belongs, and offer only what feels right to give.
"Thank you," turning eyes up to Frey when Damien turns back, and it's for more than just answering us today.
FIN
They look at Damien now and I feel the same surety settle in my chest. He’s worthy too. The difference is only that this bond isn’t Frey’s alone to grant; it’s Aria’s to accept. He’ll have to prove it to both of them—day by day, warm hands and steady care, the slow work that turns promise into truth.
When Frey gathers Aria, I finally see the stitching: fine, bloodied thread holding the pelt together. It’s the same kind of red I cleaned from my ribs in the den, the same pattern Damien had sewn into my skin with steady determination. Something about it knocks against my heart hard enough to sting. I don’t cry at the poignancy of it. I let the feeling pass through like light through glass and I hold onto the part that warms instead of burns. When Aria is given back to his arms—when the Herald of Rae sets a path and calls it an opportunity—I can’t help the small smile that lifts at the corner of my mouth.
Damien glances back and I meet him, steady as I can make myself, and nod once: go on. You’ve got this. Then I lift my eyes to Frey, all the brightness in me kept soft and small so the moment stays where it belongs, and offer only what feels right to give.
"Thank you," turning eyes up to Frey when Damien turns back, and it's for more than just answering us today.
FIN
how to feel trapped in a tunnel
but come out the other side
but come out the other side
